Dixie Elliot continues in short story form.

A grim-faced news reporter stood on a country road in Armagh speaking to the camera. The sky was laden with rain clouds as he talked about the previous day’s landmine attack on a British army mobile patrol. The road behind him was blocked off but the twisted wreckage of a land rover could clearly be seen lying on its side in a ditch. He turned towards the clearing up operation and said that three British soldiers had died and three more were seriously injured. He added that the attack had been the work of the IRA.

Terry Whelan watched the six o’clock news until it ended, then he rose from where he sat on an armchair and turned the volume down on the TV.

“Do you want a cup of tea Terry?” asked his wife from the kitchen.

“No thanks, I have to go out now.”

“It’s going to be a bad night out there, take your overcoat.”

“I will,” said Terry as he went to fetch it.

His wife Theresa came over and fixed the collar of his overcoat. “Be careful tonight, the Brits will be out to get somebody for this Terry.”

“I know they will,” he said before he took his car keys and left without another word being spoken.

Theresa Whelan knew that her husband was a member of the IRA, a very prominent member. He rarely stayed in the one place and had only called in that evening for his dinner. She had grown accustomed to his life on-the-run, but it didn’t stop her constantly worrying that he’d be killed and would not be coming back to her and their two children. She knew about his nightmares from the few times that he managed to sleep with her. He often woke up in a cold sweat.

Terry stepped out of the front door into a grey mizzle and checked the street before got into an Austin Metro which was parked a few doors down from his house. He never used the same car for more than a week. He checked the rear-view mirror and pulled out onto the road, constantly on the alert for anything remotely out of the ordinary.

By the time the last of the street lights were behind him it was raining. His window wipers were beating a constant rhythm on the windscreen, which was having a hypnotic effect on him, as were the car headlights which approached and then passed. His mind drifted back to a night in an alleyway behind a row of houses. Jimmy O’Reilly was ahead of him carrying an Armalite rifle, Terry was twenty one at the time, two years younger than Jimmy. He carried a .45 pistol and they were about to ambush a British army patrol from the end of the alleyway. He would give covering fire with the .45 if needed.

The alleyway was dark but darker shapes seemed to emerge from the walls of the backyards and opened fire. He saw the muzzle flashes, heard the crack of the rifles and Jimmy fell back as though he had been struck by a hammer blow. It all happened in seconds, he had been lucky to escape with his life, but he did.

Terry turned onto a secondary road, there was less traffic but he started seeing things that were not there as the car headlights hit the hedgerows. He was sweating in the heavy overcoat and regretted not having taken it off before he got into the car, as he had to keep the heat on to stop the windows from misting over. He kept to the speed limit because of the weather conditions. Car headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror and flashed. He froze but it overtook him on a sharp bend and the tail lights quickly disappeared in the distance. That fool would be lucky to make it home, he thought.

He had to keep his mind on the road, it was narrow and winding, but his thoughts drifted off to an isolated farmhouse in County Cavan. They had been the only ones there, the owner, an old Republican, had stayed elsewhere for the week. A man knelt on the ground outside the farmhouse, there was a hood over his head and his hands were tied behind his back. His head was bowed and he was sobbing. He had finally admitted to being an informer and the penalty was death. As Terry and the others watched on a volunteer stepped forward with a revolver. He was hesitant and his hands shook. Then he stepped back unable to do it. Terry took the revolver from him before anyone else could act and he shot the informer in the back of the head.

Headlights appeared once again in his rear-view mirror and he pulled into the side of the road to let a Transit van pass before he moved on.

His status as a volunteer who would pull a trigger without question was assured, more so as he had done so on several other occasions. He moved up through the ranks of the IRA very quickly.

The road ahead was straight and he knew that he was nearing his destination, so he slowed to a crawl. The rain had eased but it was still difficult to see anything other than what was within range of the car headlights which he had on full beam. He saw the narrow laneway which was little more than a dirt track just as he passed it, so he stopped and reversed back, then turned down it. It was rutted and water logged which made this last part of the drive more difficult. Then the lights hit a long disused farmhouse, which reminded him of the one in County Cavan. That thought struck him every time he pulled up in front of it. The ghost of the informer seemed to be kneeling in the glare of the headlights before he switched them off. He kept the engine running and waited. He decided to take the overcoat off, so he struggled out it and tossed it into the back seat of the car.

The minutes passed like hours as he sat in absolute darkness, then he saw the headlights of another car in his rear-view mirror as it turned into the laneway. The car pulled up directly behind him. He could see the silhouette of a man approaching his own car, as the man got in beside him the headlights of the other car were switched off. Terry turned on the interior light, the man looking at him was clearly angry and he knew the reason why.

“How is your wife and family Jeff?” he asked.

“Damn you, why didn’t you let me know about the landmine attack?” Jeffrey Cruickshank, was clearly a military man but he was dressed in civilian clothes. “Do you realise how bad it made me look in front of the others as I was torn down a strip or two by the brass? Damnation man!”

“I hadn’t seen Joe Sweeney in over three weeks Jeff, he tends to go off with his unit without warning to plan and prepare for these type of operations.”

“That’s not bloody well good enough Terry. You knew what your choices were in that alleyway. Die right there and then with your mate or stay alive and work for us. You choose to stay alive. We looked after your back, turned a fucking blind eye or two and even fed you the name of that RUC informer. His usefulness was coming to an end anyway, but you certainly made a name for yourself when you put him out of his misery. The poor sod.

“I realise that only too well Jeff but…”

“But nothing. Let that unfortunate chap be a lesson to you. If your usefulness comes to an end then so do you Terry. You damn well better have something for me.”

“I do Jeff, but you must understand the risk I took to get it, I have to be careful not to expose myself.”

“What is it?” Snapped Jeff.

Terry reached under the car seat and produced an envelope which he passed to Cruickshank. “I managed to meet up with Joe Sweeney in Donegal after the landmine attack. He was hyped up and ready to go again. I told him that I wanted to meet him to discuss future targets, he said there was no need, he had it all planned ahead. Joe trusts me with his life, I have been close to him for years, but you know that already. I was best man at his wedding, we enjoyed a drink together when the chance arose.”

“I haven’t got all night. What in hell is it man?” Cruickshank clearly wanted to be on his way.”

“His unit has another landmine ready to be transported, a thousand pounds of explosives. The same bomb maker put it together, he’ll be there as well.”

“Where damn it, where is it?”

“It’s in a farmer’s shed behind his farmhouse in Fermanagh. The details are all in that envelope, the location, names and the target. They are going to hit a convoy outside of Enniskillen. Joe will be there as well. It’s being moved tomorrow night.”

Cruickshank was about to put the envelope into an inside coat pocket when Terry caught hold of his arm. “Joe will know this time Jeff, he’ll know it came from me.”

“He won’t fucking know what hit him, don’t worry about that. No one will be left alive to point a finger at…”

Terry saw flashes in the rear-view mirror, then heard the crack of rapid rifle fire. It was directed at the car behind them, Cruickshank’s car.

Cruickshank dropped the envelope and fumbled inside his coat while, at the same time, he opened the car door with his left hand. He had one foot out of the car when Terry, who was frozen to the spot with fear, saw a flash and felt something splatter in his face, at the same time he was deafened by a load bang. Cruickshank dropped backwards, his head came to a bloody rest on Terry’s lap. The car door on his side was pulled open and he was dragged out onto the sodden ground. He looked up at the man who had pulled him from the car and recognised his face.

“Ah god no,” he uttered.

“Get up… get fucking up!” said the man pointing a revolver at his head.

Terry had to be hauled to his feet by another man. He knew that they were members of the IRA.

“Move!” ordered the IRA volunteer with the revolver. The other volunteer pushed him forward and he almost tripped over his own feet.

He saw that the windscreen and side windows of Cruickshank’s car were riddled with bullet holes and as he stumbled past it he saw two bodies slumped over in the front seats. He began to whimper as he passed IRA volunteers carrying Armalite rifles. Other IRA volunteers held flashlights.

Desperation kicked in, he knew what lay in front of him. He had been there a good few times only he hadn’t been the one facing certain death. He looked at the barbed fence and the darkness beyond it. If he could run and dive over it, roll, get to his feet and run again, he could disappear into the darkness.

He twisted away from the IRA volunteer, who had his hand on his shoulder pushing him forward and lunged towards the barbed wire fence. A rifle butt to the stomach knocked the air out of his lungs and he dropped to his knees gasping for breath. He then felt the revolver pressed into the side of his head. He began to sob as he was dragged back up on to his feet.

The IRA volunteers manhandled him to the end of the laneway where a Transit van was parked across it with its lights out. Someone was standing at the side of the van.

Terry Whelan recognised Joe Sweeney immediately. His legs almost gave under him again but he was held upright by his captors. Sweeney stared at him, his face was expressionless.

“Put him into the back of the van,” he ordered.

An IRA volunteer came forward and handed Joe Sweeney the envelope which Cruickshank had dropped inside the car.

Terry Whelan’s arms were pulled behind his back and his hands were bound with rope. Joe Sweeney watched without saying another word. He put the envelope into his coat pocket.

A hood was then pulled over his head. Total blackness. Was this how it ended, a bullet in the back of the head and plunged into blackness?

Terry Whelan sobbed uncontrollably.

Thomas Dixie Elliot is a Derry artist and a former H Block Blanketman.
Follow Dixie Elliot on Twitter @IsMise_Dixie


A Recurring Nightmare

Dixie Elliot continues in short story form.

A grim-faced news reporter stood on a country road in Armagh speaking to the camera. The sky was laden with rain clouds as he talked about the previous day’s landmine attack on a British army mobile patrol. The road behind him was blocked off but the twisted wreckage of a land rover could clearly be seen lying on its side in a ditch. He turned towards the clearing up operation and said that three British soldiers had died and three more were seriously injured. He added that the attack had been the work of the IRA.

Terry Whelan watched the six o’clock news until it ended, then he rose from where he sat on an armchair and turned the volume down on the TV.

“Do you want a cup of tea Terry?” asked his wife from the kitchen.

“No thanks, I have to go out now.”

“It’s going to be a bad night out there, take your overcoat.”

“I will,” said Terry as he went to fetch it.

His wife Theresa came over and fixed the collar of his overcoat. “Be careful tonight, the Brits will be out to get somebody for this Terry.”

“I know they will,” he said before he took his car keys and left without another word being spoken.

Theresa Whelan knew that her husband was a member of the IRA, a very prominent member. He rarely stayed in the one place and had only called in that evening for his dinner. She had grown accustomed to his life on-the-run, but it didn’t stop her constantly worrying that he’d be killed and would not be coming back to her and their two children. She knew about his nightmares from the few times that he managed to sleep with her. He often woke up in a cold sweat.

Terry stepped out of the front door into a grey mizzle and checked the street before got into an Austin Metro which was parked a few doors down from his house. He never used the same car for more than a week. He checked the rear-view mirror and pulled out onto the road, constantly on the alert for anything remotely out of the ordinary.

By the time the last of the street lights were behind him it was raining. His window wipers were beating a constant rhythm on the windscreen, which was having a hypnotic effect on him, as were the car headlights which approached and then passed. His mind drifted back to a night in an alleyway behind a row of houses. Jimmy O’Reilly was ahead of him carrying an Armalite rifle, Terry was twenty one at the time, two years younger than Jimmy. He carried a .45 pistol and they were about to ambush a British army patrol from the end of the alleyway. He would give covering fire with the .45 if needed.

The alleyway was dark but darker shapes seemed to emerge from the walls of the backyards and opened fire. He saw the muzzle flashes, heard the crack of the rifles and Jimmy fell back as though he had been struck by a hammer blow. It all happened in seconds, he had been lucky to escape with his life, but he did.

Terry turned onto a secondary road, there was less traffic but he started seeing things that were not there as the car headlights hit the hedgerows. He was sweating in the heavy overcoat and regretted not having taken it off before he got into the car, as he had to keep the heat on to stop the windows from misting over. He kept to the speed limit because of the weather conditions. Car headlights appeared in his rear-view mirror and flashed. He froze but it overtook him on a sharp bend and the tail lights quickly disappeared in the distance. That fool would be lucky to make it home, he thought.

He had to keep his mind on the road, it was narrow and winding, but his thoughts drifted off to an isolated farmhouse in County Cavan. They had been the only ones there, the owner, an old Republican, had stayed elsewhere for the week. A man knelt on the ground outside the farmhouse, there was a hood over his head and his hands were tied behind his back. His head was bowed and he was sobbing. He had finally admitted to being an informer and the penalty was death. As Terry and the others watched on a volunteer stepped forward with a revolver. He was hesitant and his hands shook. Then he stepped back unable to do it. Terry took the revolver from him before anyone else could act and he shot the informer in the back of the head.

Headlights appeared once again in his rear-view mirror and he pulled into the side of the road to let a Transit van pass before he moved on.

His status as a volunteer who would pull a trigger without question was assured, more so as he had done so on several other occasions. He moved up through the ranks of the IRA very quickly.

The road ahead was straight and he knew that he was nearing his destination, so he slowed to a crawl. The rain had eased but it was still difficult to see anything other than what was within range of the car headlights which he had on full beam. He saw the narrow laneway which was little more than a dirt track just as he passed it, so he stopped and reversed back, then turned down it. It was rutted and water logged which made this last part of the drive more difficult. Then the lights hit a long disused farmhouse, which reminded him of the one in County Cavan. That thought struck him every time he pulled up in front of it. The ghost of the informer seemed to be kneeling in the glare of the headlights before he switched them off. He kept the engine running and waited. He decided to take the overcoat off, so he struggled out it and tossed it into the back seat of the car.

The minutes passed like hours as he sat in absolute darkness, then he saw the headlights of another car in his rear-view mirror as it turned into the laneway. The car pulled up directly behind him. He could see the silhouette of a man approaching his own car, as the man got in beside him the headlights of the other car were switched off. Terry turned on the interior light, the man looking at him was clearly angry and he knew the reason why.

“How is your wife and family Jeff?” he asked.

“Damn you, why didn’t you let me know about the landmine attack?” Jeffrey Cruickshank, was clearly a military man but he was dressed in civilian clothes. “Do you realise how bad it made me look in front of the others as I was torn down a strip or two by the brass? Damnation man!”

“I hadn’t seen Joe Sweeney in over three weeks Jeff, he tends to go off with his unit without warning to plan and prepare for these type of operations.”

“That’s not bloody well good enough Terry. You knew what your choices were in that alleyway. Die right there and then with your mate or stay alive and work for us. You choose to stay alive. We looked after your back, turned a fucking blind eye or two and even fed you the name of that RUC informer. His usefulness was coming to an end anyway, but you certainly made a name for yourself when you put him out of his misery. The poor sod.

“I realise that only too well Jeff but…”

“But nothing. Let that unfortunate chap be a lesson to you. If your usefulness comes to an end then so do you Terry. You damn well better have something for me.”

“I do Jeff, but you must understand the risk I took to get it, I have to be careful not to expose myself.”

“What is it?” Snapped Jeff.

Terry reached under the car seat and produced an envelope which he passed to Cruickshank. “I managed to meet up with Joe Sweeney in Donegal after the landmine attack. He was hyped up and ready to go again. I told him that I wanted to meet him to discuss future targets, he said there was no need, he had it all planned ahead. Joe trusts me with his life, I have been close to him for years, but you know that already. I was best man at his wedding, we enjoyed a drink together when the chance arose.”

“I haven’t got all night. What in hell is it man?” Cruickshank clearly wanted to be on his way.”

“His unit has another landmine ready to be transported, a thousand pounds of explosives. The same bomb maker put it together, he’ll be there as well.”

“Where damn it, where is it?”

“It’s in a farmer’s shed behind his farmhouse in Fermanagh. The details are all in that envelope, the location, names and the target. They are going to hit a convoy outside of Enniskillen. Joe will be there as well. It’s being moved tomorrow night.”

Cruickshank was about to put the envelope into an inside coat pocket when Terry caught hold of his arm. “Joe will know this time Jeff, he’ll know it came from me.”

“He won’t fucking know what hit him, don’t worry about that. No one will be left alive to point a finger at…”

Terry saw flashes in the rear-view mirror, then heard the crack of rapid rifle fire. It was directed at the car behind them, Cruickshank’s car.

Cruickshank dropped the envelope and fumbled inside his coat while, at the same time, he opened the car door with his left hand. He had one foot out of the car when Terry, who was frozen to the spot with fear, saw a flash and felt something splatter in his face, at the same time he was deafened by a load bang. Cruickshank dropped backwards, his head came to a bloody rest on Terry’s lap. The car door on his side was pulled open and he was dragged out onto the sodden ground. He looked up at the man who had pulled him from the car and recognised his face.

“Ah god no,” he uttered.

“Get up… get fucking up!” said the man pointing a revolver at his head.

Terry had to be hauled to his feet by another man. He knew that they were members of the IRA.

“Move!” ordered the IRA volunteer with the revolver. The other volunteer pushed him forward and he almost tripped over his own feet.

He saw that the windscreen and side windows of Cruickshank’s car were riddled with bullet holes and as he stumbled past it he saw two bodies slumped over in the front seats. He began to whimper as he passed IRA volunteers carrying Armalite rifles. Other IRA volunteers held flashlights.

Desperation kicked in, he knew what lay in front of him. He had been there a good few times only he hadn’t been the one facing certain death. He looked at the barbed fence and the darkness beyond it. If he could run and dive over it, roll, get to his feet and run again, he could disappear into the darkness.

He twisted away from the IRA volunteer, who had his hand on his shoulder pushing him forward and lunged towards the barbed wire fence. A rifle butt to the stomach knocked the air out of his lungs and he dropped to his knees gasping for breath. He then felt the revolver pressed into the side of his head. He began to sob as he was dragged back up on to his feet.

The IRA volunteers manhandled him to the end of the laneway where a Transit van was parked across it with its lights out. Someone was standing at the side of the van.

Terry Whelan recognised Joe Sweeney immediately. His legs almost gave under him again but he was held upright by his captors. Sweeney stared at him, his face was expressionless.

“Put him into the back of the van,” he ordered.

An IRA volunteer came forward and handed Joe Sweeney the envelope which Cruickshank had dropped inside the car.

Terry Whelan’s arms were pulled behind his back and his hands were bound with rope. Joe Sweeney watched without saying another word. He put the envelope into his coat pocket.

A hood was then pulled over his head. Total blackness. Was this how it ended, a bullet in the back of the head and plunged into blackness?

Terry Whelan sobbed uncontrollably.

Thomas Dixie Elliot is a Derry artist and a former H Block Blanketman.
Follow Dixie Elliot on Twitter @IsMise_Dixie


3 comments:

  1. That is graphic to the finest detail, to the point the reader could be present, in the rainy country lane.

    Caoimhin O'Muraile

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Dixie is really good at the short story. They are a big draw on TPQ. He captures the atmosphere Caoimhin and has the reader breathe it in.

      Delete
  2. I really hopes he publishes an anthology.

    ReplyDelete